This is a film that says nothing with a surfeit of undeserved self-satisfaction.
The film reverses the western’s traditional forms and dynamics to create something new and startling, yet still familiar.
Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck’s competent, bland aesthetics do little more than occasionally amplify their material’s cloying sentimentality,
Mafia II is overloaded with such chores, which put a far greater premium on commuting toward choppy pre-rendered cinematic sequences than it does on letting you wreak inventive havoc.
Pablo Larraín is drawn to the grimier aspects of human behavior as a means of grappling with political turmoil and violence.
Intended to amuse younger viewers and send older ones to Urban Dictionary, Douchebag’s title is, unfortunately, its most noteworthy aspect.
The Social Network is at once a snapshot of a particular era and a universal story about trying to fit in.
At first glance, Tuesday, After Christmas seems, in both form and content, only a modestly ambitious endeavor.
As in his superior original, Oliver Stone’s follow-up damns with one hand but can’t help glorifying with the other.
Hong once again corroborates auteurist theory at the same time that he reveals the potential shortcomings of its practice.
Carlos is always most revealing when watching the Jackal act and react rather than recite Marxist chestnuts.
It remains fundamentally about proceeding straight to the next skirmish, killing every enemy in sight, and then escaping to a checkpoint so an ignorable, if attractive, cutscene can begin.
All the self-awareness and saucy banter in the world can’t make Easy A consistently funny.
What makes Lovely, Still’s fairy-tale schmaltz so rank isn’t simply its excessiveness.
Having floundered with a series of stock actioners, WWE Entertainment attempts to earn cinematic credibility via an Amerindie template.
Galt Niederhoffer’s turgid faux indie elicits plenty of sneers via its pretentious and phony romantic drama.
It’s tough to expect more from a film that borrows a spray-tanning-gone-awry gag from Old Dogs.
The Winning Season is, to be as coarse as its protagonist, the cinematic equivalent of vomit.
When did Zhang Yimou start acting like Jean-Pierre Jeunet?
Robert Rodriguez’s films are so busy chuckling at their own supposed audacity that there’s no need for viewers to join in the revelry.